


Bloodlust

by kabrox18



Category: Transformers: Universe (Video Game)
Genre: Doom But With Robots, Gen, PWP with violence, Robogore, i get real explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: Megatron blows off steam.
Kudos: 7





	Bloodlust

Megatron was unhappy.

No, that was an understatement. His hands were shaking, visual feed fritzing out at the edges. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have any teeth after this, the way he was gritting them, and his temperature gauge had been sitting in the red for the entire time this seeker drone was talking. So, once they finished, he took a deep, calming sigh, loosened his fists and flexed them, and turned his searing gaze down. They instantly look like they need to be elsewhere.

“You have precisely ten seconds to—“

“Explain?” they tried, and he very nearly shot them on the spot, even as he closed his eyes and tried extremely hard to reign in his temper. They were still in need of troops and nearly half his mecha were in the medbay.

“To run,” he almost spits, and they nod quickly, scurrying off.

But that ten seconds had already run out, and he grabs them by the wing, dragging them back even as they shriek. They’re struggling something fierce, trying to worm out of his grip, but he catches swinging hands in one massive fist, pinning them to the nearest wall. He can tell someone’s coming closer, and he almost rips off a wing in response. It would be easy; like plucking Autobots apart the way he so loved. These drones weren’t even that tough.

“Milord,” Switchblade started, voice soft and respectful. He lifts his head, glaring over a shoulder with murderous intent. “I have something to help.”

“What.”

“There was a light patrol picked up just south of the Nemesis’ position. It would be twenty minutes on the ground at most, if you drop right down.” It’s an offering, a different outlet. He releases the squirming, begging, hysterical seeker, watching them scramble off like their plating depended on it.

And then he turned to Switchblade, slowly.

“Driving isn’t quick enough,” he said lowly, and his advisor nods quickly, knowing full well what would happen if the patrol was gone by the time he got there.

\--

The Nemesis makes a pass and he dives off the lowest open deck. His combat routine’s up and hot before he even gets close to the ground, and he can see five targets loitering near his insertion vector. 

Idiots.

They’re barely visible but the group starts moving; he figures one of them pointed out the giant object hurtling toward the ground at terminal velocity, legs stretched way below him.

He hits, and falls into alt, gunning it. Some of him’s sore but it’ll pass; right now, he needs to play catch-up with a bunch of Autobots that most likely have far faster altmodes than his own. Still, he covers ground and finds himself with line-of-sight. A shell precisely put in front of them stops them short. He never stops, shifting back out and charging eagerly to meet the turning targets head-on.

One of them has some heavy armament, because next he knows he’s staring down the glare of an ion rocket. He throws himself into alt again, lunging and collapsing and rolling back out all in one smooth motion. Starscream would envy him for that one.

Now he’s close enough to fix on the mecha themselves—heads and sparks line up with little crosshairs and data feeds as he keeps moving, huffing hard. He couldn’t lose momentum now.

He fires blind at one of them, half a charge spooling and discharging in a teeth-rattling thunderclap. 

They dove out of the way but it gave him precious seconds to close the gap even further. They pop back up right as he’s there and he goes low, curling a titanic arm into a blow that folds them in two, a shower of gold sparks vomiting from their back. His HUD registers their spark giving out as he throws the body off himself, still running but slower. The others have turned now, and one—the leader, he assumes—barks orders to split up.

“Run, run little Autobots!” he howls, bloodthirsty. “You’ll just die tired!” He catches up with another, a smaller one. Two wheeler, from the looks of them. They dance under his crushing death-hug and throw knives into his back. Something shorts; he feels half his arm go numb instantly on one side.

He swung the half-dead arm around like a club, watching them jump, flip over it, and land face-to-face with him. They shoot him, point-blank.

He just roars, pushing all his mass forward and toward them like the unstoppable monster he loves to be. They scream and he grabs them by the legs, twisting to slam them into the ground. They croak, then, but they aren’t dead. So he grabs their upper torso in his free hand and pulls. The other Autobots stare, dumbstruck, as he rips their teammate in half with a savage grin plastered all over his face.

His glee at tearing open the Autobot was cut short by blaster fire peppering across his side. He looks up with fury in his eyes and wastes no time discarding the strung-out scrapheap in his hands, then lifting his cannon to return fire.

“Dammit,” he catches one of them spitting. “He doesn’t stop coming for anything.” He turns his focus to the source—a carbot with fluttery doorwings and an insufferably quick trigger finger. He takes aim, stalking closer and letting his weight send detritus quivering on the ground. It’s always an effective intimidation tactic, but then he adds a low rumble, just below where more common frametypes could hear. Hearing it or not, they could sense it—the two smaller ones throw into a tizzy.

He’s got a hefty charge rolling in his cannon now and dumps it all in one burning-white glob of fissile matter, very nearly hitting the larger one with the rocket launcher. It explodes again on impact and he takes a second to appreciate the colorful string of swears that exits them.

The nearest one skates around him, cruising in and ringing close to shoot that stabbed spot in his back, sending pain firing all up and down his non-cannoned arm. He twists on his waist, making mad grab after mad grab at them as they dart and dance out of his grasp a dozen times.

“Too slow,” they taunt, and he feels his temper rising again. Finally, he catches them by a slender wrist, and laughs darkly, dragging them in despite the shots they’re squeezing off into his neck and torso. He grabs them under the other arm, holding them rather like a doll and ripping the limb off like it’s made of paper. He sets his other hand along their chest as well, starting to crush them in his grip.

They scream, clawing at his arms weakly and kicking as he presses his thumbs into their sternum, steadily increasing the pressure until their voicebox cuts out in a bleat of static. Then he pulls and their spark chamber shrieks, arcing and snapping furiously at his arms. The pain reminds him that his arms still work, which is a relief, and he laughs again, louder. Richer. He can hear one of them mutter to Primus.

“Primus won’t help you,” he says, getting to his feet and lightly shaking out his arms. Charge still crackled across his plating, and the last two Autobots stared at him, anxious. But they aren't moving. They’re clearly firing messages back and forth across textcomm; he hunkers to start running and punish them for the mistake.

They split just before impact, diving off in different directions, out of his way; it forces him to lope to an awkward, unplanned stop, twisting in confusion. The squad leader has shoved themselves into a rocky crevice, wedging in. An easy target if he’s ever seen one. He shoots a glance over, too smart to bite the bait right away.

The other’s off trying to fiddle with their rocket launcher, so he stomps up to the crevice—it’s just a bit past the reach of his arm, but first he wants to play with them. No point in killing them so soon when they've put up such a fight. Their head is close to the opening still from the way they had to wiggle in.

“Scrap!” they breathe, looking up and seeing him loom just outside. He leans in, lunging and snapping his jaws shut a hair’s breadth from their nose. They let out a gratifying scream of terror, and he reels back slowly, laughing under his breath. Their eyes are wide and near-white, and he languidly licks his chops, watching them scramble backward clumsily.

“Come out, come out, little Autobot. I don’t bite. Much,” he taunts, twisting to try and reach in.

“Hey!” comes a voice, and he extricates himself in time to turn and get a faceful of fist. It sends him back a long step; another hit sends him further. He’s stumbling back, reeling from violent hit after violent hit. He ignores his HUD spitting errors and the way his vision staggers red. His combat routine's running a dozen threads, screaming at him to block, to return a hit; he shrugs it off and lets the Autobot have their way for a moment. He would be fine after.

They stop, pulling back to try and save their friend. What a joke. A mistake. The Autobots' compassion would be their downfall—just as it always had been, and always would be. He wipes his mouth messily along the inside of his wrist, feeling the pull of his split lips across equally split gums. Fresh energon shines a dizzying shade of cyan on his arm, smeared atop layers of gone-dark, tacky blue. He stares at it a beat before turning his head, bowing and bracing himself on a hand to spit out the rest. 

More comes, but he’s already too busy moving again, tackling the heavy Autobot and tumbling with them. He lands on top and locks his knees around their thighs to prevent that from changing.

“Next time, watch the rear,” he snarls, bared teeth glistening with more energon. He wraps a hand around their neck, digging his fingertips in the cabling and relishing the resulting gag. They grip his wrist, hands hardly able to fit round it. He just cocks an arm back, hitting them once, twice. Their visor cracks and shatters, revealing screwed-shut eyes. They’re still struggling fruitlessly, grip going weak. “No...” he says, thoughtfully, and relaxes his arm. “I won’t kill you. Not yet.” He lets go, watching the way they splutter and choke. They won’t be getting up anytime soon.

He stands off them, shaking his hand out, and turns. The leader’s still hidden away, so he stalks up to the crevice, reaching in and groping around for a shoulder, a foot—anything. He catches some swearing, and grins to himself. His amusement's cut short when he gets kicked. His first response it to hiss angrily—the next is to snatch their ankle. He drags them out, chuckling wickedly even as they scream over him, kicking uselessly and clawing at the rocks.

“LET ME GO!” they wail, thrashing. He pins them with his free hand. It splays clear across their back, fitting almost neatly between and around their doorwings. They reach back at him, so he responds by grabbing a wrist and shoving it to the dirt. He leans in, putting his weight on them and threatening to crush their fragile little torso. It gets them to shut up, at least, vents shallow and labored.

“You’ve been a difficult one, haven’t you?” he coos, leaning closer. They freeze at the feeling of his breath tickling lightly across their shoulders.

“Please... just let me go, Megatron, I'll give you whatever it is you want,” they whimper, and he inhales again, breathing their fear deep. He shutters his eyes, savoring the bitter taste of the air.

“No," he says eventually. "I will make this slow, and painful, and your friend over there is going to watch.” He pulls on their arm, wires and plating going taut and threatening to snap and tear. He twists it instead, hiking it between their doorwings and making them scream. “Oh, yes, this will be fun,” he murmurs in their ear.

"Stop!" comes the choked cry, and he looks up, lip curled in disgust at the Autobot trying to lurch closer to him. He doesn't pay them too much mind, in the end; they're too far away to do anything to him, and he's got bigger things to deal with. Namely the still-wriggling body pinned under him. His fingers find seams at the base of their doorwing, prying at it and forcing them open. Then he pulls. Hard. The wing comes off in a scream of impregnable material, wires snapping and sparking. They writhe under him, sobbing into the dirt wordlessly.

"Not going to beg or scream? Shame. Maybe I ought to go slower, then." He plucks at exposed wires, wrapping them round his fingertips and toying with the bare ends, giving little tugs to see what drew up the biggest reactions. They're stuggling not to make too much noise even as he worms fingers into the new wound, digging deep and making it hurt. "Where's that pleading you were so keen on?" He hums a little, pulling his fingers out and examining the sheen of joint fluid and energon smeared across his knuckles.

They breathe finally, gasping in relief at the wound being left alone. He frowns at them, and switches hands to tug on the other doorwing, mocking thoughtfulness.

"No," they hiccup. "Stop..."

"I think not. Oh, do tell me, though; why did you hide away instead of facing me head-on? I'm dying to know," he purrs, plucking at wires in the base of the appendage. "It's so very unlike you Autobots to be so cowardly, you're always so blindly courageous."

"Hoped you'd take the bait..." they mutter, eyes going dark as they try to gather what little strength they have left. But then he smiles, sickly sweet, and tears this one off with the same force. This time he crushes the base, shredding the metal and destroying the joint. They scream silently, choking out the tiniest sounds in spite of his efforts.

"I see. Still trying to be brave. This may go quicker if you weren't so keen on such foolish endeavors." He flips them, pushing on their chest and grinding the exposed wiring into the dirt. They struggle again, amazingly, and he inclines his head. "Tell me, Autobot. How much energon do you have left? How much time?"

"Like I'm going to tell you," they hiss, barely audible past their own vents struggling to cycle air. He grabs their hand off his collar, where it fumbled, and crushed their wrist in his iron grip. They just sob softly, and he tears the limb off in a fit of impatience.

"Idiot," he spits, and pries off half their chest armor, exposing finer metal plates and cabling. Then he rips that off too, peeling up the last barrier covering their internals. "If you won't tell me, I'll just find out myself." They stare up at him emptily, eyes gone dead. They're running out quicker than he anticipated. He growls and pulls their fuel pump out, tossing it aside with the rest of them. He can see the grey creeping across their mechanisms, and he hurriedly pulls open their spark casing, watching as it winks out.

Their hand drops off his wrist, and he stands, looking over to the last remaining Autobot of the squad. They're staring at the sky, shaking slightly. Megatron comes over, something like satisfaction written into the lazy way he saunters close. They look to him, eyes dim and weary.

"I'm next, huh?"

"The main course," he agrees, and drops to a crouch beside them. They're still venting slowly, labored and weak. Not a part of them is spared of damage.

"Are you going to make it quick?"

"No."

"Didn't think so," they wheeze, and cough violently, energon flecking out. He narrows his eyes and takes them by the neck, fitting his fingers to the grooves he'd left before.

"I will enjoy sending you to meet with your squadron in the Allspark," he mutters, and diverts power to clamp his hand as tight as it'll go. They go deathly silent for a beat, secondary vents flaring suddenly; he can hear fans whir at higher settings, trying frantically to cycle air and cool their internals. But he keeps squeezing, even as they squirm in his grip, clawing weakly at his wrist. He watches them struggle, remorseless. He feels cabling pinch off, severing under its own heat and his slowly-cinching grasp. It doesn't take too long before their head simply comes off, and his fingers are discolored from heat and melted biometal.

It takes all of a minute for their spark to finally give out, and air sighs out of the decapitated corpse.

"Switchblade," he says, almost warmly. He turns his head, eyes going dull as he waits for the response.

"Yessir?"

"The team is dead. My tether is online." He shuts off unnecessary routines, waiting for the cold swallow of a shortrange nexus hop. He's on the Nemesis in moments, and smiles slowly at his advisor.

"I know what you're going to say. The answer is: go see Knockout, first."

"Naturally," he purrs, and swaggers off, ignoring the catch in his hip.


End file.
